


Not What You Need

by OnlyOneWoman



Series: Unleash Me From My Darkness [5]
Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Aftercare, Also some Nightwish lyrics, Angst, Canon Divergent Characters, Crack Relationships, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub, Domestic Discipline, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, From The Poet and the Pendulum, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, In fact just forget about canon altogether, Love, M/M, Married Couple, No Sex, No Smut, Non-Physical Discipline, Not Canon Compliant, Obedience Kink, One Shot, PTSD, Past Abuse, Prequel, Unleash Me From My Darkness series, so much love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23613208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyOneWoman/pseuds/OnlyOneWoman
Summary: This, my lovelies, is but a shortie for the series that takes place before Filip and Ronea met Juice. There's no set time, really, but they've been married for quite some time. You don't have to have read the "Unleash Me..." series to read this one. It's basically my very non-canon Chibs, a dominant partner married to a submissive man called Ronea - which is a complete and utter makover of Ron Tully and not to be connected with the canon character at all. I've not felt inspiration for this series in a very long time, but I wanted to provide a little respite from the angst in "Eleven Heartbeats" and especially give some of my most devoted non-canon Tully fanclub something that's just about comfort, care and love.If you read this and either don't remember my "Ronea" Tully or stumble over it without ever having read the "Unleash Me..." series, this will be VERY different from canon, I assure you. He's not a nazi here, but a submissive husband who thrives on obedience and Chibs - Filip in this AU - his stern and very loving dominant husband who'd give Ronea the world if he could.
Relationships: Chibs Telford/Ron Tully
Series: Unleash Me From My Darkness [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1107105
Comments: 12
Kudos: 5





	Not What You Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GirlWhoLovesMonsters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlWhoLovesMonsters/gifts), [RavenAurelieChoiseau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenAurelieChoiseau/gifts), [TCD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCD/gifts).



”Please, Filip? I need it.”  
”I’m sorry, lovey, but ye don’.”  
“You can’t tell me what I need and don’t!”  
“Not everytime, no, but when I know, I will.”  
  
Ye’re angry. With me, with everything, mostly with yerself. Even without the tone o’ yer voice an’ yer words, I can tell. Ye’re angry, which means I gotta be extra careful with the rules. With how I rule over ye according to yer wishes.  
  
I’m sitting in the kitchen, keeping ye company because this isn’t the righ’ moment for ye to be alone. I know ye hate it when I sit like this, looking at ye when ye’re cooking, because ye still have moments when ye feel judged simply by yer own existance. Moments when no reason, logic or happy memories exist anymore an’ all tha’s left is tha’ dark pit o’ utter shame for everything ye are. Being watched only adds to tha’ pain.  
  
Sorry, darlin’, but tha’s simply not something I can spank out o’ ye. I cannae use violence or force o’ any sort to take _tha’_ kind o’ shame away. I wish I could, but we’ve tried it an’ it only made it worse. Christ, lovey, why cannae ye remember tha’ in moments like this?  
  
Ye’re moving around the kitchen with those sharp turns tha’ I’ve learned to reckognize as pain from stress. Yer beautiful hair is messy in the ponytail an’ I wonder wha’s happening under it. Wha’ kind o’ self-hatred ye’re overwhelmed with this time an’ how long it’ll take until yer aching body no longer allows ye to take yer frustation out on the dinner.  
  
The worst thing about this, is knowing how ye, on top o’ everything else, is scared o’ _me_ righ’ now without really knowing it. I can see it from the way yer shoulders are pulled too tight and yer lovely neck is rigid like it’s been put on a stick. If I tell ye now tha’ ye don’ need to be scared, tha’ I’m not Aaron, tha’ I love ye so much I can barely stand it, ye’ll break.  
  
Oh, lovey, mo chridhe, my life an’ soul, a spanking isn’t wha’ ye need righ’ now.  
  
“Why are you just sitting there and staring at me? It’s fucking creepy!”  
  
There. Ye’re finally allowing anger, tha’s good. I sneak a glance at the watch, it took almost thirtyfive minutes this time an’ I cannae imagine how tense an’ sore ye are now. But ye know, Ronea, it would be wrong o’ me to interrupt tha’ process now, no matter how badly ye’re asking me too an’ how painful it is to see ye suffering.  
  
Spanking ye – in fact, even touching ye – righ’ now, would cause ye so much o’ the wrong kind o’ pain. Ye’d not feel safe, free, cared for or relieved.  
  
I simply love ye far too much to give ye wha’ ye want instead o’ wha’ ye need.  
  
“You know this is bullshit, Filip! You promised you’d take care of me, remember?”  
  
Aye, lovey, tha’s exactly why I refuse to take ye over my lap righ’ now. Nor will this tantrum coax me into giving ye a punishment later, no matter how rude ye are. In a moment like this, ye don’ even know how prepared ye are for an attack from me. How ye’re not seeing things, or me, clearly. If I were to start a session with ye righ’ now, as ye’re begging me for, I fear tha’ ye’d end up in tha’ part o’ yer memory tha’ thinks ye’re literally going to die.  
  
Jesus Christ, darlin’, if I only knew where I’d even begin to look. How I wish I could just know where the triggered spot is located this time without having to let ye – an’ me – go through this agonizing process.  
  
Yer shoulders are starting to slump a little, yer cheeks are flustered an’ I can see the huge circles o’ sweat are forming under yer arms, yer shirt getting soaked an’ when ye’re leaning a wee bit over the sink, as if catching yer breath, I finally know ye’re starting to loose hold o’ tha’ anger we need to put words onto in a while.  
  
Don’ ye think I wish I could kiss, fuck, spank or just hold ye until it went away? Tha’s all I wish for, lovey. Everything I truly want, lies within tha’ wish. No one has ever made me feel as weak as ye do an’ I love ye for it.  
  
“Stop staring at me! Fuck… I… Just stop…”  
  
This is why even the slightest force, either phsyical or verbal, is out o’ the question. Sweat is already pouring yer temples, yer eyes are glassy an’ ye can no longer try an’ do anything with dinner. I’m waiting, waiting for ye to realise ye broke a rule an’ it takes another long moment before I can see it finally hit ye an’ I know it’ll take a lot longer before ye realise – let alone accept – tha’ I wont punish ye.  
  
The sound coming from ye as yer body forces ye to admit at least some defeat, could make me greet like a wee lad. Ye’re sliding down on the kitchen floor, back to the cabinet where ye keep yer pots an’ pans. Yer arms slump to yer sides but yer shoulders wont give into gravity an’ ye're whimpering, not greeting, there are no tears, jus’ these dry sobs an’ ye look so hopelessly alone down there.  
  
I rise from my chair an’ it’s when I spot the calender on the wall tha’ I realise wha’s making ye nearly choke on tha’ pain.  
  
Fuck. I shoulda remembered.  
  
Today’s the anniversery o’ Aaron’s death.  
  
Everything makes sense now an’ I sit down on the floor, trying to catch yer gaze.  
  
“Lovey?”  
  
Ye’re looking up, eyes dark an’ lost, pain all ye see. I use my softest voice.  
  
“Ye can mourn him, lovey. Ronea, t’is alrigh’, nothing’s wrong with tha’. Ye loved’im once an’ now he’s dead.”  
  
I purposefully avoid mentioning the abuse he put ye through. The physical, mental an’ sexual. Ye don’ need to hear tha’ now. Ye need acceptance. Mine, especially if ye cannae have yer own. Usually t’is not a good way o’ handling things by lending ye my words, but ye’re simply not capable o’ forming them yerself now, not for many hours still an’ tha’s an agony I wont put ye through. Ye’re already so, so sore.  
  
T’is like the grief has a will o’ it’s own, pushing through ye, up yer throat an’ finally out in the form o’ the most broken cry I’ve ever heard. Years o’ memories, o’ good an’ bad ones – mostly bad, aye, but ye loved’im too an’ I accept tha’, lovey. I respect yer feelings, especially the conflicted ones tearing ye apart.  
  
“He was a part o’ ye, Ronea. Still is, an’ ye don’ have to apologize or feel bad for mourning.”  
  
I was righ’, ye know. Ye dinnae need a spanking, jus’ space an’ words. An’ I need to hold ye, so badly.  
  
When ye let me near again, I’m forcing myself to take small steps. One at the time, not invading yer space until I’m sure I’m invited. It takes time but it’s worth it, the moment when I reach out my hand an’ ye lean in tha’ way tha’ tells me ye wan’ me to hold ye again.  
  
I let ye cry in my arms for wha’ feels like hours. It isn’t, but it feels like it. When ye’re starting to retch, I’m prepared with a bucket from the cabinet an’ ye throw up. It doesn’t worry me anymore these days, it happens so very rarely an’ mostly when ye’ve come to tha’ point, I already know wha’s going on even if yer poor, pain ridden body hasn’t caught up properly.  
  
I’m holding yer hair back until ye’re done an’ then I put the bucket away an’ get up to get ye a glass o’ water. It makes me angry tha’ yer anger refuses to come out without hurting ye so badly. T’is so bloody unfair ‘cause if anyone has a right be angry, t’is ye, lovey. Not with yerself, but with tha’ bastard tha’ hurt ye an’ still does, even from his grave.  
  
Ye shouldna feel guilty for loving him, tha’s not something ye can control. We feel wha’ we feel, lovey, an’ despite wha’ ye might think, yer love for’im, a dead abusive arsehole tha’ hit, raped an’ nearly killed ye, doesn’t make me angry or jealous. It only makes me sad an’ frustrated, tha’ despite wha’ _ye_ want, he’s still haunting ye an’ makes ye feel bad for being shit scared.  
  
Ye take small sips o’ the water, letting me stroke yer damp hair an’ when I lean forward to kiss yer forehead, ye’re not falling back, but onto me an’ I remove the glass carefully.  
  
“Can I hold ye, husband?”  
  
I’m calling ye back from him, from the hellish memory, the guilt and the crushing loneliness ye shouldna have to feel. I do it, by calling ye by tha’ name only ye will ever have to me, by the name ye never had for him, nor him for ye or me for anyone but ye.  
  
We need to hear it, both o’ us.  
  
Ye’re crying again, but this time t’is calmer, yer face willingly tucked onto my chest and I know how this will sit in yer poor joints an’ muscles for a few days, how t’is up to me to make sure ye’re warm an’ don’ overwork yerself. To remind ye tha’ yer body is no bloody temple one can jus’ walk in an out o’, but something living, a wild an’ endlessly beautiful thing deserving reverence.  
  
I’m kissing yer hair, yer temples, holding ye through the last o’ the aftermath before I can start wha’ in some ways could seem like aftercare, but is so very different. Ye dinnae choose this, ye were pulled into it an’ now ye’re finally on yer way out again, coming back to yerself an’ to me. Ye start shaking, not from anxiety, but from the ague an’ I rub yer shoulders.  
  
“Lovey, we gotta get ye out o’ those clothes, okay?”  
  
You just nod, which is good enough righ’ now an’ I place a kiss on yer forehead.  
  
“Jus’ let me get a blanket for ye.”  
  
Getting ye warm an’ dry now is the most important. Tha’ wha’ ye need, lovey, not more physical pain, even the good kind tha’ usually make ye so relaxed. When ye’re desperate for it, like ye just were, when ye’re actively trying to make me spank ye, tha’s a tell-tale sign tha’ ye need something else from me.  
  
A hug. Some reassuring words. Or just my company.  
  
With united efforts, we get ye out o’ yer sweaty clothes an’ when I’ve swirled a blanket around ye, I lift ye and carry ye to the livingroom. Ye’re not a very light man anymore, which I’m grateful for, but I can still carry ye in my arms an’ put ye down in front o’ the fireplace. I kiss yer temple again.  
  
“Gonna make a fire, lovey an’ then make us something to drink.”  
  
Ye nod again, even actively nuzzling against me, showing me ye’re not there, back in the past anymore, an’ while not entirely _here_ yet, clearly on yer way. Ye don’t need questions – or suggestions – righ’ now, but orders. Calm, easy an’ logical orders.  
  
I make sure ye’re sitting comfortably on the floor, leaned against our couch, head supported with a pillow, an’ when the fire is going, I make us tea, one o’ few eadible things I’m allowed to make without crossing boundaries. Elderflower an’ lemon tea will be good, I know ye really like the scent as well, an’ there are literally no connections to yer past to it.  
  
When I come back to the livingroom, ye look exhausted but not devestated anymore. There’s even a little smile an’ ye accept the cup with a nod. I love how we’re so particular with our etiquette, even now. T’is really comforting to me as well, lovey, I hope ye know tha’.  
  
Ye sip carefully on yer cup, the steam o’ it heating yer face, moisting it even more an’ gives it a less pale look. Yer damp hair gives ye an overall fresh look, even if it’s sweat from the panic. Ye’re glowing in the light o’ our fireplace, a frail figure, like a fairytale book illustration o’ a pale princess (or prince in yer case), lost in the dark woods an’ lightened only by the moon. When ye’re out o’ this completely an’ feeling like yerself again, ye’ll have this amazingly fresh color on yer cheeks, eyes dark an’ warm, glittering even if they’re tired.  
  
The little wrinkles around yer eyes will come to life, the dimples deepen an’ I’ll get to hear tha’ beautiful, unabashed laughter, telling me tha’ ye’ve made it outta the woods an’ back onto the path _ye_ chose. Then, an’ only then, sweet darlin’, will I guide ye over my lap, so gently, so lovingly, an’ fulfill tha’ ultimate bond between us again. An’ I will make ye blush an’ cry, offer the sting until ye’ve gotten it all out o’ yer system, an’ feel completely free an’ happy.  
  
I will hold ye again then, give the comfort, the aftercare ye need in any form I can provide. There’ll be no dividing line between us during tha’ process. My body an extension o’ yers an’ yers o’ mine. I will dry yer tears an’ rub aloe over yer beautiful arse. I will soothe wha’ needs to be soothed, keep yer shoulders warm with a blanket an’ yer bottom cool with a wet towel. I will place a cup o’ sweet ice tea to yer lips to rehydrate an’ slowly nurture yer system, wipe yer teary face an’ then tuck ye into bed, lay down naked with ye an’ jus’ hold ye in my arms, listening to whatever ye may or may not need to say, for as long as ye need it.  
  
Oh, lovey, I truly wish I could give ye that righ’ now, but it’s not wha’ ye need. Yer body won’t be able to take it, neither yer mind. Ye’d only feel humiliated, suppressed an’ abused. Ye’d fall only deeper into the shame ye so desperate wants out o’. Ye’d feel the kind o’ pain tha’ doesn’t give relief, only fear an’ tension so no, darlin’ husband, I wont give ye tha’.  
  
Instead, I take my clothes off an’ place myself behind ye, for ye to lean back against. Jus’ simple skin contact, yer damp one against my dry an’ warm. The blanket I fold over our knees is warm, because ye need it an’ I’ll gladly sweat like a pig for ye.  
  
Ye let me help with the tea now, yer dry lips on the porcelain, the steaming content slowly making it’s way down yer throat, one small mouthful at the time. When it’s empty, I put it away an’ then I start to whisper.  
  
I tell ye how again, how ye have every right to mourn him, how it doesn’t make ye a bad or weak man, nor an unfaithful husband. I repeat wha’ ye know when ye’re not trapped in the PTSD, tha’ there’s no right an’ wrong here, nothing to be ashamed o’, nothing tha’ makes the love between us weaker or less beautiful. I explan tha’s why I refused to spank ye, because we agreed on tha’ rule, tha’ we never ever punish feelings, nor use spankings as a quick solution jus’ to move on.  
  
I kiss the nape o’ yer neck, sighing.  
  
“Ye trusted me to take care o’ ye, lovey. To guide ye when ye feel lost. Tha’s wha’ I promised at our wedding, in front o’ God an’ witnesses. Remember?”  
“How could I forget, Filip.”  
“Do ye regret yer vow o’ obedience?”  
“Not for second.”  
“Neither do I regret mine, darlin’. I’ll give ye whatever is in my power to give, but only if an’ when ye need it. If it serves to make ye happy in the long run. Do ye trust me to do tha’?”  
“Always. Well… as long as I’m not lost somewhere…”  
  
Ye even make a small laughter an’ it warms my heart more than ye understand. I rub yer arms a bit.  
  
“When I deem ye ready, Ronea, I will prepare ye properly an’ in good time. We will talk through it as usual an’ I will choose an instrument tha’ I see fitting.”  
  
Ye shudder, but t’is the good kind an’ I keep going.  
  
“I will expect ye to kneel before me an’ tell me about yer missteps, o’ anything ye might think be a purpose for correction, even if ye’re not sure. An’ I know ye’ll feel worried, but I’ll be listening all the way, _mo chridhe_ , until ye’ve told me everything ye need to.”  
  
Ye’re nuzzling into me harder now, already relaxing despite I’m only _talking_ about it.  
  
“I will guide ye to the side, husband, an’ tell ye to drop yer pants an’ panties before bending over my lap. By then, ye might already feel like ye’re about to break, because we’ve been forced to wait a little bit longer than usual. Yer body might be especially tense, ye might be hard an’ already so deep in subspace ye’ll rub against me despite our rules. An’ I will _know_ tha’, Ronea, an’ I will understand an’ help ye, by taking over the control completely for a little while.”  
  
Now ye’re weeping, quietly, calmly, an’ I rock ye some, cradling ye in my arms.  
  
“I will tell ye before I start, lovey. I’ll make sure ye lie steady, tha’ ye feel safe an’ seen an’ heard by me. When I’m sure ye do, I will start to discipline ye with my hand, making sure ye’re ready for the instrument I’ve chosen.”  
  
A sigh, yer back already curving a little, muscles letting go a bit.  
  
“An’ I will spank ye then, darlin’. I’ll hold ye in place, make yer lovely arse glow an’ sting so ye’ll have trouble sitting for the rest o’ the day an’ perhaps the day after. I’ll encourage ye to cry an’ scream, to let go entirely an’ give into it all. I’ll wait an’ stay with ye until ye’re ready to proceed an’ let me start the aftercare.”  
  
There’s another shudder, ye’re relaxing more, yer back molding into my chest an’ belly. Yer own torso moves beautifully in calm waves, yer breath is normal again, neither stressed out, nor too slow. I can feel how the coldness has been avoided with fire an’ blankets an’ my skin. Ye’re warm, lax an’ yer tears are getting fewer an’ fewer.  
  
Words are unnecessary now, I’ve said wha’ ye needed to hear. I don’ have to mention Aaron again, not in this moment, ‘cause it belongs just to us. He has no part in _our_ life, he’s but an old wound tha’ will need to be cared for, but not focused on. Tha’ doesn’t mean ye’re to erase him from yer memory, even if ye could. He’s there, in yer past, an unfortunate part o’ who ye are, but he doesn’t define ye anymore than the bastard giving me the Glasgow smile define me. They’re shadows, my heart, just shadows an’ the sun is about to set outside, but the fire is still burning an’ soon there will be stars.  
  
Ye fall asleep like this, heavy in my arms an’ with yer hair loose an’ messy over yer shoulders. When I’ve held ye for a while, jus’ to let ye come to rest properly, I raise slowly, using the couch for support an’ then I sit with ye still in my arms for a while, until I’m ready.  
  
Ye’re not stirred by the movement. I walk upstairs, sending a silent prayer o’ thanks tha’ we’re both still young an’ tha’ my back an’ knees are strong. I carry ye to our bed, remove the lovely patchwork kilt ye’ve made as a bedspread, an’ carefully lay ye down. Ye just keep sleeping an’ while t’is not always fun to be right, I’m glad I was, because then I know I made the right decision for ye.  
  
I find yer pajamas, which is a pair o’ loose shorts an’ a tanktop an’ I manage to get ye dressed without waking ye up. Finally I rub some facial cream on yer face, only to realise halfway tha’ I’m using yer foot cream but ah well, I’d truly love for ye to ask me why the hell yer pillow smell o’ peppermint tomorrow, seeing ye scrunch yer nose an’ just being yer usual, adorable self again.  
  
I spread the blue cover over ye, open the window jus’ a little to get some more fresh air in an’ then I turn off the light, save for the small lamp behind the curtains. I see how yer breaths are completely even, the worried wrinkles on yer forehead straightened again an’ the color back on yer cheeks. I’d love to curl around ye right now, to cuddle ye the rest o’ the evening an’ all through the night. I’d need tha’, but ye don’t. Not yet.  
  
I linger in the doorway because ye’re so beautiful, my Ronea, so beautiful I can still find myself dumdstricken an’ completely lost when looking at ye. I see no weakness, no brokenness, no failure at all. With ye there’s no shallow surface, my lovey. Ye have such oceans within an’ whenever ye need me to, I’ll reach down to drag ye up again. An’ when I cannae, like now, I’ll follow ye down to yer depths as well an’ tuck ye in beneath the blue, beneath the pain an’ if ye need, hold ye until the rays o’ sun reach ye again.  
  
An’ they will, my love. They will.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, that was some self-indulgent DD focused on inner discipline, not physical. If that's what you needed to read, let me know ;)


End file.
